Gayle Wilson - The Inquisitor

Jenna hadn’t had time to do more than glance at the lead story in the morning paper. That had been enough to let her know this was going to remain at the top of the front page until this killer was caught. Or until things got so hot for him here that he moved on to another location.

Which was essentially all she’d said yesterday, she reiterated mentally. Actually, there was nothing she’d said that wasn’t completely accurate.

She had talked about the interview to Paul Carlisle, the founder of the practice, as soon as she’d gotten to work. That’s when she’d discovered that the station had replayed the part about the murderer on both the late-night news and again this morning, although they hadn’t bothered to repeat the rest of the interview.

Maybe Sean Murphy had seen one of those broadcasts. In any case, there was nothing she needed to apologize for, she decided. No matter what he thought.

“You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

“I’m sorry?” Her voice rose on the last word.

“You tell someone who likes torturing women that he’s just some poor abused kid who isn’t responsible for what he’s done—”

“I never said that. I never said anything like that.”

“Yeah? Well, you can bet that’s what he heard.”

“And who made you the expert on what he heard?”

“A long and intimate acquaintance.”

Her analytical mind took over, replaying his words. “Are you saying…you know him? You know who he is?”

“I know what he is. And I know what he does. Apparently a lot better method of ‘knowing’ him than whatever crap you were spouting.”

Jenna stood so abruptly that her desk chair rolled back and hit the wall behind her. “We’re through here.”

She reached across the desk to punch the button on the intercom. If he didn’t leave, she’d tell her secretary to do what she had wanted to when he’d first barged in.

“You’re exactly his type, you know.”

Startled by the change in tone, Jenna looked up, her finger stopped in midair. There was no longer any trace of approval in his eyes. They were cold. And very angry.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You can look it up when the locals finally get their act together. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall. Slender. And not a prostitute or a waitress among them.”

The trepidation she’d felt when he said he’d come to save her life stirred in her stomach again. Today’s front page had featured pictures of the local victims. And the description he’d just given fit them all.

“I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist,” Sean Murphy went on, seeming to relish the impact his words were having, “but I’ve got a feeling he’d be interested.”

“In me? Are you suggesting that the killer would be interested in me?”

“Since you’re out there telling the world what a poor, misunderstood bastard he is.”

She didn’t bother to refute the accusation again. He had decided that’s what she’d said. There was probably nothing she could do to dissuade him from his perception.

And what if he’s right? What if that’s what the killer heard, too?

Which would be a hell of an assumption. First, that the murderer had even heard the interview. And second, that he’d misinterpreted her words exactly as this arrogant SOB had.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, working to keep any emotion out of the conventional words. It was obvious Sean Murphy had come here to frighten her. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded.

As soon as he was out of here, she would call the police and tell them what he’d said. That business about having a long and intimate acquaintance with the killer would probably be of interest to them.

“Believe me, Dr. Kincaid, concern for you isn’t what brought me. Since you didn’t seem to have any idea what you’d done, however, I did feel a certain moral obligation to warn you.”

“Then consider that your ‘moral obligation’ has been fulfilled. I assure you I feel duly warned.”

As she said the last, she again reached for the intercom button, hoping he’d take that as a hint that they were done. Instead of turning toward the door as she’d hoped, he stood there, directly across from her desk, his eyes once more assessing.

“He’s smart,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “And he’ll be in no hurry. He never is. A couple of months. Maybe more. Actually, it could be any time. Any time he chooses.”

“Thank you.” She held his eyes without letting her own reveal any reaction to the threat. And she now had no doubt that’s what it was. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

For the first time a tilt at the corners disturbed the thin line of his lips. The smile seemed to soften the spare planes of his face, although it held not one iota of amusement.

“There is one thing he doesn’t know,” he added. “Something that may work to your advantage.”

Maybe he was disturbed. Maybe those signs of normality she’d noted didn’t mean jack shit.

“And what is that, Mr. Murphy?”

“That I’m every bit as patient as he is. When you see him, you might want to tell him that.”

The bite of the cold outside air was welcome after the overheated interior of the office building. Sean stood a moment in front of its double glass doors, staring unseeingly across at the lot where he’d parked the rented SUV.

Guilt had reared its ugly head even before he’d turned on his heel and walked out of Jenna Kincaid’s office. It hadn’t abated during the short ride down on the elevator.

He’d done what he’d come here to do. He’d frightened her so that the next time some reporter stuck a mike under her nose, she’d think twice before she made excuses for a murderer. And he couldn’t quite figure out why he felt like such an asshole.

Maybe because of what was in her eyes when you told her some sadistic bastard was going to torture and kill her? How the hell did you think she’d react?

Actually, he’d been surprised at how well she’d dealt with everything he’d thrown at her. He’d been so furious about the garbage she’d spewed during that interview, he hadn’t really stopped to think about her reaction.

He had been brutally—unforgivably—direct about the possibility that if the killer had heard her sympathetic explanation for his behavior, she would have attracted the attention of the last man on earth whose attention she would want. Despite his threat, Jenna Kincaid had kept her poise.

Only in her eyes had he seen any evidence of the fear he’d deliberately tried to create. And remembering what had been in them, he felt even more like a bastard.

He jammed his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket and started down the steps. After years of operating in hostile environments, he automatically scanned the parking lot, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Like someone staking out the place where she worked?

He’d meant the question to be mocking. As the thought formed, however, Sean acknowledged that if the Inquisitor had seen that interview, he’d know exactly where she worked by now.

That clip had been replayed at least three times. And after the official announcement from the cops yesterday, the bastard would have been glued to every newscast, hoping to catch any publicity his actions had generated.

He would have seen Dr. Kincaid’s pity party for him, all right. And by now, almost twenty-four hours later, he would undoubtedly know all about her.

Telling himself that wasn’t his problem, Sean punched the key lock remote as he approached the SUV. Although it was only a little after four, the halogen lights in the lot had already come on, glinting off the vehicle’s black surface.